January Before February
by a tattered rose
Summary: A night like any other, after a day like any other.


Disclaimer: I smoke cigarettes. You know you shouldn't start. Don't sue- I own nothing L&O related.  
  
Author's Notes: Partially inspired by "February" by James Schuyler.  
  
~ * ~ * ~ *  
  
He dressed himself in ritual.  
  
White dress shirt, starched and pressed. Two-thirds of a three-piece, more restricting than he remembered. Boots from the back of his closet. Black trench coat, hat from the era of the boots. Leather gloves skin-the- second.  
  
On his way out the door he pocketed his wallet and his keys, and he avoided the mirror as he flicked off the lights.  
  
He had to stop at a convenience store for cigarettes and a lighter. He named a brand, but that was the only concession to speech he would make tonight.  
  
Wind pushed in through the open front of his coat as he walked to the nearest divided road. The barest laze of the eyes watched for traffic as he crossed to the middle. Rows of trees were at either side, at attention in formation amongst the crystal shards of green. He reached out to feel their height as their limbs arched over his head.  
  
Dull clunk of footsteps stopped on the far side of a fountain. He lit a cigarette. With the first drag he raised his eyes, fixed them staring straight ahead into the blackness.  
  
Heat scratched at his throat, tore at his lungs. He continued to inhale fresh air, swallowing to quell the urge to cough. It had been too long. When he couldn't hold it longer he exhaled slowly, letting thickened breath cloud over his eyes. Hands fell to his sides, daring the night to enter his proffered body.  
  
After a period he took another drag. He let his fire leak out as the cold worked it's way in. Within minutes he was shivering. Holding himself rigid, he forced the tremors to his joints, reveling in the way his body moved itself in contrast to the whipping fabric.  
  
His hands were unclothed until one lifted to his lips. Then there was leather- cold obstruction - a purposeful fetter to his commune with the elements.  
  
Tip glowed alive as he inhaled. He kept the haze as his pose resumed. Slow exhale through the nose, a controlled display of power.  
  
On either side taxis blew past him. They were the city in movement, people all but losing humanity and intentionality within his perception. Shaped concrete behind him, flattened underneath him, lingams to either side all became invasive shadows, guiding the air even as they pierced it.  
  
He forced his mind to empty: he fought the urge to go inside. He refused to move until cigarette became filter in his hand.  
  
He walked home quickly, head not bowed against the cold, but defying the lights to either side, defy the smiling, the watching faces of the few passerby.  
  
He let himself into his apartment, ignoring the light switch. He placed his wallet and keys back in their accustomed places.  
  
He let gravity slip the coat from his shoulders. He pulled off the gloves, finger by finger, clenching warmth back into his skin.  
  
Let himself relax back into his battered leather armchair, from which he could watch the sky. Left the window shut, barricading the chill out, the heat in.  
  
And he cursed his body for craving the heat.  
  
Minimizing his breathing, his ears began to pick up the subtler sounds of his environment. The invisible assault on the thin glass, the musical play of the same air dancing past the building.  
  
But with the welcome sounds came the laughter of his neighbors, foreign music barging through the thin walls. An unstoppable, brutal invasion into his solitude.  
  
Lacking recourse he gave up.  
  
Hat back onto the shelf. Both laces loosened before the boots were slipped off, then carefully placed back into their latest tomb.  
  
Vest unbuttoned, top to bottom. Only when he had shrugged out of the material did he remember the confines it had forced on his flesh.  
  
He lost his shirt the same way. Instead he pulled on an old flannel shirt; metallic blue, grey and cream rubbed raw by the years.  
  
With care he stepped out of his pants and folded them over before hanging them up. It was already too late, the mood a memory slipping fast, like rainwater falling too quickly for the earth to drink without spilling.  
  
Resigned, he pulled on a torn and broken pair of jeans. Newly dressed, it was another hour. At a touch, his stereo played music enough for the rest of the night. Titanic: the New Musical: bright and defiant, even unto death.  
  
Drowning out the neighbors mirth with his own choice, he sat back in his chair. This time he kept his eyes from the window.  
  
Forty minutes, and he would go to bed. Buried under blankets he would sleep in his makeshift womb until his alarm set another day in motion. Another day, after this night like any other. 


End file.
